


The Obey Me Boys as RPG Bosses: Frostheart

by indiavolowetrust



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gore, M/M, Other, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27118774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolowetrust/pseuds/indiavolowetrust
Summary: You are one of many hunters in a land cursed with everlasting winter. You yourself have become rime-touched after an attack by your fellow corrupted hunter, an incident that left you traumatized and lame. Even your hunter’s guild has resigned you to a life of mere cleaning and upkeep duties, and you have spent the last seven years in the depths of your guild’s archives.Then the White Witch spirits your little brother away into her castle, taking with her the only family you have ever known. Armed with your trusty hunting knife and bow -- and aided by your senior hunter, Simeon -- you set off into the rime-cursed lands to find Luke and end the White Witch’s reign once and for all. **Loosely based on The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen
Relationships: Main Character & Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 43





	1. Prologue

It is said that the rime draws beasts out of the hearts of men. The hoarfrost came, cursed as the land was by the White Witch, and then came the famine. The beasts came, corrupted and twisted beyond measure by the curse, and then came the slaughter. And so came the Frost Blades: a group of hunters trained to slay the rime-touched beasts, cull the spread of the curse, and bring glory to King Diavolo’s wondrous kingdom. It is said that a hunter of the Frost Blades is destined to die a hero’s death, whether it be by jaws of a wolf-beast or some other monstrosity.

You know better, of course. The pure never stay pure for long. Those whose hearts are touched by the rime eventually lose themselves, body and soul, and the symptoms only worsen the further one traverses into the cursed hinterlands. Dizziness, fatigue, and nausea. The piercing of one’s flesh by ice crystals that seem to have grown from within, the loss of one’s extremities to the frost, and the forced expulsion of bodily fluids. Hallucinations and madness. At the heart of glacial rift -- where the White Witch and her subjects are said to reside -- it is said that there exists a barrier no human can pass. Not without losing themselves completely to the rime, that is. The few that had passed the barrier and returned had … they had …

The memory is there before you know it, raw and frostbitten. The bow you’ve been cleaning nearly clatters to the floor, but you manage to hold onto it with trembling fingers.

You can only remember skewered limbs and bestial screams. One hand pressed to your ruined eye, the other shakily holding a blade that you knew would not save you. One of your legs was beyond repair. The creature that had once been Agathe had stalked closer with its segmented, crystalline body, that hunter’s caution still present, and you were too petrified to do anything but gaze upon the bringer of your own death. Too young, too inexperienced, and too unskilled to face off against a rime-touched beast of her caliber. And in her eyes -- Gods, in her eyes, you could have sworn that you saw something not quite bestial staring back at you. Someone.

The journey to the heart of the glacial rift is said to be unbound by any law of space or time, as expected of a realm created by the White Witch. Despite its eldritch properties, you’ve decided to take at least enough supplies for a dozen or so leagues. Elk jerky, dried fruits and nuts, and sizable canteens of water. Rolls of twine, bandages, and tins of Old Gytha’s medicine. Your whitewood bow and arrows sit at the ready of your back. Your fur-lined cloak and boots weigh heavily upon you when you limp past the Frost Blades’ garrison, although perhaps that is to be expected. You were born in this town, and you had fully expected to die in it. If Luke hadn’t been spirited away by the White Witch, you’re not sure if you would even have the heart to step out of its walls. You certainly lack the strength.

A hand plates itself on your shoulder when you stand before gates of the town, firm and unyielding. Simeon.

_What did you expect?_ you berate yourself, a sigh escaping your mouth. _He’s probably known all along. You’re as transparent as glass._

Luke’s gone, you tell him. You shift against your walking cane as you do so, not quite prepared to meet his gaze. Not yet, anyway. Even now, you’re too much of a coward. Regardless, he can’t stop you. Your mind and heart is already set on the quest.

“I know.”

You don’t care if they kick you out of the Frost Blades for defying orders. Luke is -- you made a promise to him. He’s the only family you have.

“I know.”

Then why --

His glove-laden hand turns you gently to face him, cutting you short. Your eyes widen at the sight of hunting gear, his own whitewood bow strapped to his back, and he gives you a smile that is only the slightest bit wolfish. A part of you relaxes at that. Despite his straight-laced behavior in the garrison, it would appear that Simeon is still Simeon, the boy that used to defend you and Luke against the older kids in town. Simeon, the baker’s son who stole loaves of bread to feed you and Luke on unbearable nights. Simeon, the greatest and most elite hunter of his party once he enlisted into the Frost Blades.

Simeon, the one who hadn’t quite been there in time. Even Old Gytha had trouble stitching what remained of you back together.

“The Frost Blades have us make an oath to protect our subordinates,” he says in the way of an explanation, leaving the rest unsaid. He walks past you to push aside a patch of brambles, revealing a weathered wooden door. An unused exit. A corner of his mouth quirks upwards when he catches you staring, and he arches a brow at you. “You didn’t really think I’d let you go by yourself, did you?”


	2. Belphegor and Beelzebub, Guardians of the Boreal Forest

It is difficult to believe anyone has ever lived here before. The uneven terrain is stricken with permafrost, rendering the ground slippery and unforgiving, and the boughs of the trees stretch far into the sky. Like nearly everything else in the boreal forest, they are barren, crystalline, and completely incapable of being burned. Yet the ruins here are massive. You and Simeon sit in the belly of a keep -- or what remains of it, anyway -- as the bones of some unfortunate animal crackle and wither away before you in a blue blaze. They lend little warmth, but you dare not speak a word on the matter. Simeon had supported you when your limp worsened, your cane relaying itself to your side, and when your lame legs could no longer support your weight, he carried you. He had not complained or minded, and so you would not either.

Or perhaps he had and he was too kind to tell you otherwise.

 _Useless,_ you think to yourself. _Useless, useless, useless. No wonder the Frost Blades had difficulty deciding to spare you. A rime-touched whelp has no place in --_

“Are you cold?”

You blink to see Simeon staring intently at you, which he evidently has been for a while. Your legs hurt from walking, and you tell him as much. Working with the Frost Blades’ records is a much different experience than traveling. It’s been a long time.

 _Seven years,_ you almost say. _It’s been seven years._

“I suppose it has,” he hums, and he resumes stoking the fire with a crystalline branch. It only flickers weakly in response.

Despite being certain that you and Simeon have been traveling for only several hours -- meaning that it should only be midday -- night had already long fallen by the time you reached the ruins. Another oddity of exploring the lands near the White Witch’s realm, it would seem. You and Simeon had passed what should have been leagues in a matter of minutes, whereas what had seemed like a miniscule hill had taken an hour to pass. Streams babbled in some places and nearly stood still in others. Despite the high walls of the ruins here, you can feel the wind blowing through at too fast a pace. Simeon struggles to keep the blaze alive.

And so when you stumble upon a massive, free-standing stone gate in the middle of a frozen clearing, you can’t say you’re completely surprised.

Instead, it is the pair of statues before it that draws your attention. While both of them wield a massive battle axe, the creatures depicted in the sculptures seem to be of two different species. The slightly smaller one reminds you of the oxen tended to by the township: cloven legs, curved horns, and thick fur. Its eyes are half-lidded, as if it were on the brink of falling asleep. The other one stands some two or three heads taller than the oxen-like one, bearing features that you would not expect of a creature acclimated to the ice. Its face is dotted with multitudinous eyes, its massive maw is inset with sharp, wicked teeth, and four insectoid wings sprout from its back.

Stranger yet, the statues have been carved with an impeccable eye for detail -- enough that you had nearly mistaken them for another rime-touched beast. The glacial wind whips back and forth across clearing, making them appear to move. To breathe.

Almost as if they were.

“Halt!” booms a voice across the clearing, forcing you to stumble backwards. Simeon all but drags you behind a tree.

“Who goes there?” demands another voice, lower and more gruff than the first.

One hand clamped over your mouth, the other pressed to the hilt of his blade. His eyes meet yours only after a moment, and you see within them the question that plagues your own thoughts. The bearers of these voices, whomever they may be, should not be here.

“This land belongs to Her Ladyship! Speak, or begone with ye!”

There is the sound of cracking, much like porcelain falling apart. Or perhaps it is more reminiscent of ice shattering, like a mirror bursting into shards after being struck. Simeon’s gaze only narrows as he takes another glance over the side of the tree, still holding you close to him. He begins to slowly draw his blade out from its sheath. The boreal winds begin to howl even greater than before, masking the noise.

Simeon unceremoniously flings you in the direction of the clearing. Your shoulder crashes into the permafrost just as the blade of an axe crashes into the tree, cleaving it in two. Simeon is barely able to draw his sword before the axe meets it -- and then he, too, is sent flying. He pierces the ground with his sword before he can completely clear the open space, stopping just short in front of you. Two figures -- one bearing curved horns, the other bearing insectoid wings -- clamber out of the edge of the forest, the larger of the two hefting the oversized axe over his back.

It is only then that you see the symbols carved into the statues, each circling their wrists and ankles like manacles.

_Golems._

“What have we here, brother?” says the ox-like golem, gazing upon you with interest. “It would appear Her Ladyship’s doll has arrived sooner than we thought. Shall we deliver this human to her?”

“We shall.”

The ox-like golem strides forward. “How convenient that you’ve brought the human to us -- and in such good condition, might I add? Her Ladyship will be in good spirits to see her dear prince and her doll reunited.” He offers his hand to you, much to your surprise. “Come with me, human. There’s no need to be accompanied by this charlatan any longer.”

Charlatan? You can only stare at the ox-like golem’s hand in bewilderment, shaking your head. Whatever reason the White Witch may have to declare you as her doll -- whatever that means -- you will not abandon Simeon. You have no reason to comply with their wishes.

“You heard the hunter.” Simeon brings his sword before him again, creating a barrier between you and the golems. “We’re not going anywhere. If you want to separate us, you’ll have to go through me.”

“More’s the pity. And here we thought Her Ladyship gave us an easy task for once.” The ox-like golem yawns, gesturing to the other, and it is but a moment before the two cross blades. A dueling stance. “Name’s Belphegor. Beelzebub and I will take the pleasure of beheading you today.”

“Last chance,” warns the winged golem. “Surrender now, and we shall forgive you for your transgressions.”

**Tip: Staggering one of the golems will force the other to its aid. As Beelzebub is faster and stronger than his counterpart, it is advised to incapacitate Belphegor first.**


	3. Asmodeus, Her Ladyship's Rose-keeper

There’s no need to call you a hunter, really, because you aren’t one. Not anymore, at least. It is only after the third day that the guilt truly begins to settle in. A hunter should be able to bound through the forest with the grace of an elk. A hunter should be able to shoot and cut down their own prey. A hunter should have the capacity to handle the physical strain of travel. A hunter should be able to do all this and more, and so you are not a hunter.

Yet Simeon only gives you that half-quirk of a smile when you say as much to him, as if the point you’d just made was completely unfounded.

“I see the Frost Blades have gotten to your head.” A sigh escapes his mouth when you gesture for him to continue. “The physical part of it -- mastering that is all good and well, but it won’t save you in an ambush. Might not save you in a usual hunt either, if you’re unlucky enough. If you ask me, you’re more useful than a dozen recruits put together.”

Maybe, but he was the one who defeated the golems in the end. You limp across a stretch of especially harsh permafrost, your walking cane finding purchase in the ice, but Simeon steadies you all the same. While you two have managed to make it out of the boreal forest largely unscathed, Simeon appears to be no less vigilant when it comes to your safety. If anything, his caution has heightened: every step of yours draws his gaze, he does all the hunting and trapping for the both of you, and he takes it upon himself to check the state of your lame leg. He’s merely ensuring that the curse of the rime hasn’t spread, he insists, but somehow you don’t believe that.

_ He doesn’t mean any of it, _ a harsh part of you whispers, making you flinch inwardly.  _ You’re a burden, and you know it. He knows it. Stop lying to yourself. _

“And I wouldn’t have known how to do that if I didn’t have you with me,” he says, all but lifting you over a patch of manicured roses. “Honestly, just because you’re --”

_ Roses?  _

“-- not that I don’t see you as --”

The permafrost has been wholly replaced by alabaster paving stones, each one more perfect than the last. Gone is the boreal forest; in its place stands a massive crystalline garden. The rows of unnatural orchids and roses dance in the wind, nary a petal out of place, and even from a single glance you can discern the artistry and care put into the garden. Were it not for the eerie nature of the situation, you would have found it beautiful. Were it not for the young man -- no, rime-cursed dryad -- a mere distance from you, you would have been wholly enraptured by the sight.

You freeze in place. You feel Simeon urging you along, but you are unwilling to come any closer than you already have to the creature. What had appeared to be a rather pretty face unfurls slowly, painstakingly, until all you see are rows of thorn-like teeth within. A smile, you think. He’s smiling at you.

“Is something the matter?” Simeon’s voice is a distant echo. “I can carry you again if your legs hurt.”

No, no, that’s not it. You can barely force the words out, your mouth nearly frozen shut. Every inch of your body screams at you not to turn to him, not to look, but you must. You must, or else --

A pair of thorny fingers gently tip your chin upwards, forcing you to stare into his eyeless face. “Oh, pretty thing, I knew you would come!” he cries, the petals of his visage ruffling in delight. “And what a sight you are -- why, the doll-maker will have an absolute field day with you! Bit unfinished, but he’ll fix that soon enough. I was so worried those two would take you apart before I could.”

Simeon, you rasp. Simeon, there’s --

A barbed vine spears you through and through. You don’t have enough time to scream; you can only watch in horror as bright crimson begins to blossom around the wound. The rime-touched dryad flings you across the garden with ease. Your flesh slices open against the flowers when you crash into one of the many beds, a cry of pain leaving your mouth. In the few seconds it takes for you to land, you process approximately three things.

First, there is no trace of Simeon. There is no one but you and this horrible creature in the garden. The sky has long turned into an eldritch shade of bright pink, masking whatever else may lie beyond the garden.

Second, the excruciating pain that should be there is but a dull ache. A strangely warm, needful one, but a mere ache no less. While it fails to give you comfort, you know more than anyone that you should have no feeling in your legs at the moment. That blow should have rendered you completely paralyzed.

Third, the floral scent caught in your throat is thick and sickening. The air is unnaturally stagnant.

This isn’t real.

“But for how long? You may be touched by the rime, pretty thing, but that human certainly isn’t.” He twirls the thorned whip in his hands as he steps towards you, his smile as cloying as his flowers. “There’s no harm in having a little fun with that, is there?”

**Tip: The illusion has rendered you temporarily invulnerable. Shatter the illusion before the buff’s timer runs out.**


	4. Satan, the Shackled Hound

Despite the high mortality rate of those enlisted in the Frost Blades, the guild makes an effort to provide exceptionally well-made armor for all its members. It is a curious thing: the skin of a frostwyrm lined with the pelt of a direwolf, bows and arrow shafts carved from the wood unique to the rime-touched land, and all manner of blades created from the iron ingots stamped with the King Diavolo’s royal crest. An assurance of quality, you would presume. Aside from that, you yourself can attest to its strength. Had the Frost Blades not invested so much into their armor, you’re sure you would have lost more than an eye and the use of a single leg. Old Gytha would have had nothing left of you to stitch back together.

And so watching a rime-touched beast slice the armor into ribbons is nothing less than jarring. Simeon’s blood flies in an arc through the spilled moonlight, finally splattering on the ground before you. The drops that do reach your cheek are so very warm.

The attack is enough to force Simeon back, his boots scraping against the stone floor, but he manages to hold his ground. Sword held defensively before him with one hand, the other searching in his pockets for a bit of flint. Something to ignite an incendiary weapon. Yet you know before he does that he can’t use such a thing. He won’t. While the library is absolutely colossal in size, there’s no guarantee that you and Simeon would both be able to escape in time from the blaze. There’s no guarantee that the incendiary would simply fizzle out to uselessness either, considering the strange properties of the hinterlands.

 _Hide,_ Simeon had said. The dryad had left more than a few puncture wounds when his whip had struck you in the waking world, and Simeon’s thumb had grazed lightly over the bandages. Jaw set, an inscrutable expression. _Hide and stay quiet until I come back for you. It won’t be that long. Promise me that you won’t leave this place until I come back._

The moment of hesitation is all the beast needs. The rime-touched creature -- a pitch-black dire wolf with a verdant, blazing gaze -- lunges forward once more, his massive jaws snapping shut. Simeon sidesteps the attack once more.

Except he doesn’t. The dire wolf’s massive jaws snap shut around his shoulder with a sickening crack. His sword clatters to the floor. You are privy to the sight of blood flowing freely down his helpless form, the strangled groan burbling from his throat, and the deafening silence thereafter. Simeon slumps in the dire wolf’s jaws, motionless and horribly, horribly still. A flick of the dire wolf’s head tosses Simeon’s body against one of the many bookcases in the library, his body crumpling into an insensate heap at the bottom. The beast begins to pad towards him once more.

You can’t keep your promise.

You don’t know how you get there -- or how fast, for that matter -- but in what feels like less than a moment, you find yourself strewn over his body. Legs burning, heart hammering in your chest. His sword is much too heavy for you to lift, but you hold onto it with a white-knuckled grip all the same. The dire wolf encroaches upon you with slow, deliberate steps, stalking forward. Your blood runs cold.

But Simeon’s body grows even colder behind you, his breaths labored and heavy. His blood pools around you.

If it will not let you pass, then you will carve out a path by yourself. If it knows what’s good for it, then it’ll stay away. You call it a monster, a fiend, a --

The dire wolf howls with laughter, throwing its head back.

“ME, A MONSTER? HOW PREPOSTEROUS! YOU HUMANS HAVEN’T CHANGED AT ALL!” He draws forward at that, his great teeth snapping inches away from your face. His verdant eyes blaze mirthlessly through the shadows. “I SEEK NOT GLORY. I SEEK NOT PLEASURE. YOU WOULD DO WELL TO KNOW THAT I AM NOTHING LIKE THAT LUSTFUL ROSE-KEEPER OR THOSE GLUTTONOUS, SLOTHFUL GOLEMS. I SEEK ONLY FREEDOM IN MY WRATH, BOUND AND SHACKLED AS I AM. TELL ME, DEAR HUMAN, WHAT DO YOU SEEK?”

You -- you only seek the path to the heart of the glacial rift. You stumble over nearly every word, prepared for the beast to bite off your head, but he gives no other sign of aggression. The White Witch has taken your dear brother, and you intend on retrieving him from her clutches. You know not how you’ve ended up here or why. One moment you had been in a garden, and the next moment you were in a library.

“I SEE SHE’S FOUND A NEW PLAYTHING. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO DRAW THAT ACCURSED WITCH’S ATTENTION?” The dire wolf huffs, the scent of ash and blood permeating the air, and begins to turn away. “‘IT MATTERS NOT, I SUPPOSE. COME, AND I WILL SHOW YOU THE PATH BACK TO YOUR REALM. CAST ASIDE THESE FANCIFUL DREAMS OF HEROISM, HUMAN. YOUR BROTHER IS LONG GONE.”

Wait! Your plea is louder than it should be, enough for him to pause. Simeon is -- he is --

“HALF-DEAD, AS HE SHOULD BE,” the beast growls. “THAT HALFWIT ATTACKED ME FIRST, AND I MERELY DEFENDED MYSELF. HE CANNOT BE SAVED.”

Defended himself? He nearly tore Simeon in half! And what does he mean he can’t be saved? You will not abandon him, and you will certainly not abandon him in such a state. He is the guardian of this library; certainly he knows some way to save him. Certainly he understands your plight.

“SO YOU DESIRE TO PROTECT HIM?”

Yes, you do.

“YOU BELIEVE THAT HALFWIT IS STRONG ENOUGH TO WITHSTAND THE CURSE?”

Of course, he is! He’s the greatest and most pure of his party in the Frost Blades. He cannot possibly fall to the curse.

“WHAT WILL YOU DO TO PROTECT HIM, HUMAN? WILL YOU SHED YOUR BLOOD AND SHATTER YOUR BONES? WILL YOU SACRIFICE YOURSELF TO THIS REALM, AS I HAVE? IN THE END, WHEN YOU HAVE REACHED THE HEART OF THE RIFT, WILL YOU HAVE THE STOMACH TO SEE WHAT YOUR ACTIONS HAVE WROUGHT?”

You’ll do anything to protect him. Anything. Even if the curse spreads across your body -- your flesh pierced by crystals, your heart turned into frost, your blood expelled from every orifice -- you will do anything to save the people you love. He cannot put doubt into your heart.

You do not even have the time to blink. The tips of his teeth pierce just the surface of your skin, the scent of ash and blood fills your nostrils once more, and the inside of his gaping mouth opens like a void before you. Yet you do not flinch. You do not dare move, even when your blood begins to run freely from the small wounds. He remains there for a few long moments, his teeth digging only an increment deeper into your flesh. Your vision begins to swim as you hold your breath.

His teeth rake long lines against your flesh when he pulls away. In the sliver of moonlight cast upon him, you see the glimmer of ice-like, illusory shackles on his legs. Old, wicked scars litter his body.

“YOU TRULY ARE FOOLISH. FOOLISH, BUT BRAVE.” Something is spat out at your feet. A tooth. The dire wolf begins to lumber back into the shadows, disappearing amongst the bookcases. “MY BLOOD WILL ACT AS A PANACEA. THE MAIN DOORS WILL TAKE YOU WHEREVER THE WHITE WITCH DECIDES YOU SHOULD GO. DO NOT LET ME CATCH YOU AGAIN.”

**Tip: You have only three chances to properly administer the panacea. Make every second of the mini-game count.**


	5. Leviathan, the First Serpent

Despite having grown up in the everlasting winter, you’ve never seen anything quite so lifeless. The land before you is all but a flat, featureless expanse, the glacial winds rendering everything a solid white. There are no trees. No trees, no moss, no lichen, and no grass. No animals, either. While it has been only an hour since the doors spat you and Simeon here, you’ve already begun to worry. The day is on the verge of dusk, and you know all too well how quickly night will fall. You may not have stumbled upon any adversaries yet -- the most favored of the White Witch’s subjects, according to the shackled dire wolf -- but you would much rather not be taken by surprise. Such an open area provides no shelter. No defense.

Yet you have no other choice but to go forward. Luke remains in the White Witch’s clutches, and Simeon --

_ Simeon _ .

You cast a furtive glance towards him. Your gaze searches for the wounds that should be there, the limp that should plague his own stride, the nearly gnawed off arm -- but there is nothing. Of course, there is nothing. You had heard the bones click as they reformed themselves. His flesh had knitted itself together before your very eyes, leaving not even a shadow of a scar. You had watched as he had returned from death’s door.

_ Don’t you think he’s gotten tired of you yet? He’s the only reason you’ve gotten this far. You’re as dependent and useless as a child. _

Simeon catches you by the arm before you can stumble, your walking cane stuck in the ground. A few choice pulls manage to free it from the crack in the ice, the end breaking into a sharp point, and so it is relegated to the side of your pack. A quiet gesture places your hand in his, the other securely wrapped around your shoulders. The shame settles in your stomach like lead.

_ He regrets coming along with you. Why wouldn’t he? He took pity on you. You can’t even lift his sword from the ground! _

“Looks like we’ll have to stop here for today,” Simeon says, casting his hand against the flurry of snow. The pain emanating from your lame leg is enough to discourage any protests on your part, as is the extent of your fatigue. “Didn’t think we were on a cliff.”

You peer with your one eye through the glacial winds, gazing into the land beyond. Despite the cover of ice and snow, you can discern the telltale signs of frozen water and the end of the rocky outcrop. The sun kisses the horizon in a melange of white, pink, and pale blue, the colors painted across the sky, and it is only after a moment that you realize that you are looking at a sea. The beginning of an ocean, perhaps. While the Frost Blades doesn’t deploy any of their hunters to the ports -- much less you, considering your missing eye and lame leg -- you’ve heard many tales of sea. Waves as tall as mountains, shipwrecks littered with gold and treasure, and great beasts that emerge from the deep. Mermaids, serpents, and sirens.

It is said that the White Witch created the first serpent. The leviathan, if you recall it correctly. A fisherman had found himself green with envy, jealous as he was of his neighbors’ catches and boats, and so the White Witch had granted him the best vessel to fulfill his wishes. His flesh and bone had been exchanged for scales the color of night, a terrible maw, and a serpentine body the length of several furlongs. A misguided sense of mercy.

It is only when Simeon walks away that you have the courage to ask the question that begs to be asked. Does he regret accompanying you on your journey? You’re -- you’re useless and weak and … 

“No,” he says simply. Simeon begins to pat around the ice and snow with his boots, feeling for any sharp rocks. “If I thought any of those things were true, then I wouldn’t have even let you take one step past the gates.”

The words ring empty in your head, despite his tone. The sight of his body being nearly bitten in half by the dire wolf has branded itself into your memory. Blood pooling around his mangled body, his ragged breaths slowly dwindling into silence, and the glassy, dull look overtaking his eyes. He had been dead, at least for a moment.

Then there is the glaring reality of the curse. You and Simeon have long passed the barrier into the White Witch’s realm. Unless you desire for the both of you to die a slow, excruciating death by being impaled by crystals and turned into frost, there is no way to go but forward.

And so you simply shake your head at his words, muttering something noncommittal.

“You really don’t get it, do you? You’re --” a sigh, deep and withdrawn, “-- look, I --”

The sound of shattering ice all but deafens the both of you, cutting him off, and you look instinctively behind you to search for the source of the sound. It takes you but a moment to realize that the blustering winds have stopped. An ominous quiet has settled upon boreal land. An ominous churning sound behind you -- no, below you -- draws your attention further, and you hold your breath.

A sea serpent bursts from the ice behind you, all dark scales and golden eyes. Its teeth sink into the flesh of your thigh, your scream pierces the air, something else latches onto you -- and then there is nothing but the rush of wind. You have only a few blessed seconds in mid-air before your body is plunged into the icy sea.

Arctic water fills your lungs. The force of being dragged through the water at such great speed is almost enough to knock you unconscious. The serpent seems to be content traveling just below the surface of the ice; if you reached forward, it would be close enough to touch. A strange weight drags at your side.

A lurch. The serpent takes an abrupt turn, surely delving deeper into the blackness below, and the world fades to black.

Yet you find yourself gasping for air mere moments later, your body convulsing against the ice. Someone gathers you in his arms. Simeon. The shards of ice from where the beast had broken the surface are scattered around you. Your walking cane is gone. Your blood stains even the outside of your clothing.

Simeon, you croak, my leg --

“Hush.” A kiss -- a kiss? -- is pressed to your forehead. “You’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m not going to leave you. Just stay awake and watch the ice for me.”

The ice? But … 

“It’s still here. It won’t be that long until we reach that cave up ahead, but I need you to stay awake and watch out for me. Can you do that?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer. The blustering winds have returned, snow accompanying it, and his quick strides cross an alarming distance in moments. You can see the shadow of the serpent swimming just below the ice.

**Tip: You will bleed out in twelve minutes. The serpent will attack wherever the ice thins or is otherwise broken.**


	6. Mammon, the Avaricious Crow

There’s nary a spot in the chamber that is untouched by riches of some sort. Coins of gold and silver spill from overfilled chests, gem-encrusted headdresses hang from makeshift hooks. and raiments of every make and color are strewn about the place. Immaculate silk gowns have been folded neatly into a nest. Rich, fur-lined cloaks act as curtains against the chamber’s openings. Brocade quilts, rugs interwoven with golden thread, immaculately embroidered frocks -- Gods, you can’t imagine how long it must have taken for one to create such a collection. Thanks to your time in the Frost Blades’ archives, you can recognize quite a few of them from a bygone era. The coins have been embossed with the crest held by King Diavolo’s father -- before his son had staged the bloody coup, of course. The crowns, antiques as they are, are priceless.

It is the very bastion of avarice.

And so it is only fitting that the owner of such a collection would be equally as ruthless in their methods to protect it, considering the value. A rime-touched beast -- not quite a crow, not quite a man -- is perched atop one of the many piles of treasures, his taloned fingers fiddling with a particularly opulent bracelet. White feathers ruffling in irritation, wings folding and unfolded ever so slightly. His golden eyes narrow when he scrutinizes you from his perch.

“I don’t really agree with her methods, ya know, but I can’t really pass up on the bounty she offered up for ya.” His voice is distorted with a bird-like trill, his mouth struggling to form around the human words. His gaze pauses at the remnants of the curse where your eye should be, trailing the spiderwebbed, unnatural layer of frost. Once more there is that frown of disapproval, as if you were some subpar antique brought before an appraiser. A fractured object set in front of an auctioneer. “Only a touch of the rime, no charm, and yer about as mute as one of those swans she has. Pretty weak-lookin’ for a hunter, too. What does she see in ya?”

You’re tired of the White Witch’s games. All this talk about dolls and subjects and the curse -- you’ve heard enough of it to last a lifetime. The loss of your walking cane had inadvertently led to Simeon being trapped in the crow-beast’s many gilded cages, and Luke is still caught in the White Witch’s clutches. Why can’t he just grant the both of you passage? If he has such a distaste for the White Witch, then why not let you and Simeon go to spite her?

A cawing, raucous laugh leaves his mouth at that, his white feathers ruffling with the movement. “Doesn’t work like that’,” he says. “This here’s her realm -- her realm, her rules. Everybody knows you’ve gotta give up somethin’ to pass through me. What’s wrong with takin’ a little cut of the prize? Call it a trade between us.”

Simeon -- Simeon isn’t some object to be bartered and traded away! If he’s so set on getting something of value from the both of you, then you have plenty of other things you can trade. Weapons, rations, medicine. And if he really does want a piece of a human, then you’ll gladly --

“What use would I have of a rime-touched eye or leg? I don’t think ya understand the meaning of value.”

And why not? You came here to rescue Luke with Simeon, not to leave Simeon to some horrible fate.

“Hah! Ya remind me of someone I used to know.” He shoots you a toothy grin. “Let’s give ya a little example, then: I wanted fortune, so she gave me this little form and role in her realm. Asmo wanted eternal youth and beauty, so she let him be the caretaker of one of her favorite gardens. Beel and Belphie wanted to protect each other, so she turned ‘em into golems. The others -- well, I think ya got the point. That’s what value is, hunter. That’s what ya call a proper trade. The only reason why ya aren’t in that cage over there is ‘cause you’ve caught her eye. That, and ‘cause that human over there cried over ya like a baby.”

You blink. That memory -- Simeon sobbing into your chest, trembling fingers stitching your leg back together, him begging you not to die -- had seemed like a mere dream. Something simply conjured by wishful thinking. If what he says is true, why does he know that? How?

The crow-beast shrugs. “Just a perk of the job. Value’s in everythin’, remember? Grief and despair -- that’s what I’d call the cream of the crop. But the rime hasn’t made me that much of a monster. If you can offer me somethin’ else that’s just as good, then I’ll consider letting ya both go. Sound like a deal to you?”

**Tip: What is your most precious, most beloved memory? What matters to you the most? You can make only seven mistakes in this conversational battle before he considers your deal null.**


	7. Lucifer, the Forgotten

You can’t help but be acutely aware of the curse. Your lame leg has hardened into a crystalline substance -- not quite living, not quite dead -- and you have found that you can see far more than you ever could with your ruined eye. Then again, perhaps that isn’t quite accurate: what had once only perceived shadows and light now sees things that you would have never been able to discern with pure human sight alone. Your ruined eye sees the hunger that afflicts the simple-minded beasts. They pass you without a second thought during their nightly hunts, their quarry bounding across the tundra. It sees the curse of the rime, present everywhere in this land of everlasting winter. It sees the remnants of life in the permafrost, the frozen roots and brambles fighting to survive.

When you stumble across another human -- a sober, raven-haired man wearing a hunter’s garb -- you see what it is that draws beasts out of the hearts of men. This one carries a particularly poisonous sense of pride.

He startles to his feet when he catches sight of you, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. The blade is drawn before you in a matter of moments. The flames of his small campfire cast long shadows against both you and him, making his sharp features even more harsh -- but you know the truth. Aside from his immense sense of pride, there is fear in his heart. A simple sense of trepidation and dread. Yet there is also an odd sense of melancholy. This is one who has lost much to the rime.

Most notably, he is just like you: not quite living, not quite dead. His heart is that of frost, and you can see the remnants of crystalline ice on his neck. If he were to cross the barrier of the White Witch’s realm and return to the human world, you have no doubt that he would turn into another mindless rime-touched beast. The fact that his clothes are of an obviously archaic style attests further to his state. While time may move strangely pockets of the White Witch’s realm, it appears to be completely stagnant here. You can only imagine just how long this man has imprisoned himself. Decades? Centuries?

“Your kind isn’t welcome here,” the raven-haired man says after a moment, his dark gaze unwavering. It flickers with a strange crimson. “Leave.”

Your kind? You point out that he is your kind, much to his irritation. You only want to know the path to the White Witch’s castle, as it is imperative that you have an audience with her. You must have an audience with her. That’s why you came here, isn’t it?

The man only continues to examine you warily. “Where’s the rest of your party? You didn’t come here alone. Not with that leg of yours.”

You assure him that you did -- because you did come here alone, didn’t you? Who else would be reckless enough to undertake this fool’s errand with you? You scour your memories, fleeting as they are, and find nothing of the sort that would contradict your answer. You have always been alone.

You can’t help but ask him the same question. What is he doing here?

“I --” he sighs, the sound sharp and strangely poignant, “-- I led my hunting party into this land to destroy the source of the corruption. It filled their heads with promises and wishes, and they fell to its whims. All of them, except for me.”

His lament is buried deep within his pride, but it wells up just enough to catch a glimpse of what you believe to be a memory. A loud, white-haired man argues with a nobleman over a sack of coins. Another hunter seems to have fallen asleep on perhaps the tallest man you have ever seen. There are others -- a fisherman-turned-hunter, a slender, rather pretty former rose-keeper, an irate blond -- but it is the image of the young woman that captures your attention the most. You know those eyes. You’ve seen her before.

You are pulled violently into your own memory, the years having little effect on its clarity. The creature that had once been Agathe had paused for only a moment, but it was enough to discern the strange intelligence in its gaze. Something had stared back at you when you looked into its eyes. Someone.

“It won’t be long until you become one of the rime-touched beasts wandering around. You’re already halfway to becoming one of them.” The raven-haired man brandishes his blade before you once more. “Allow me to grant you a small mercy, hunter.”

Unfortunately, you can’t let him do that. You unsheathe your blade -- your blade? -- and ready yourself for battle. 

**Tip: Press [X] to see through your rime-touched eye and predict Lucifer’s movements.**


	8. ???

Despite the spread of the curse, you find that your skin grows numb at his touch. His hands -- his perfectly carved, crystalline hands -- cup the sides of your cheek with a strange tenderness, his fingers tracing the soft line of your jaw. A gentle sort of scrutiny. Then there is the matter of the man himself: his form appears to have been carved from ice, translucent as he is, and the smile that graces his delicate features shows no sign of cracking the surface of his skin. An ice sculpture brought to life, it would seem. While you’ve heard of the strange corruption that encompasses the White Witch’s realm, you would have never expected it to procure such a being.

The White Witch’s subjects have only ever attacked you. You had fought them off again and again, nearly losing your life every encounter -- and yet you can’t help but feel as if something is missing from the recollection. As if something dear and important has been torn away. You must have an audience with the White Witch, yes, but why? What could have compelled you to undertake such a dangerous journey? Why does your heart feel so hollow?

 _Stay away,_ some buried part of your conscience whispers. Your rime-touched eye discerns only an emptiness where his desires should be, the curse somehow barring you from looking within him. _He’s --_

“What a joyous day!” he cries, pulling you into a frigid embrace. “We’ve been expecting you, my dear. Oh, and don’t mind the castle guards -- I can always conjure up some more.”

You only blink up at him when he finally lets you pull away, confused. While it is nice not being attacked for once, you must have an audience with the White Witch. You try to make the demand in the most polite manner you can muster. Whatever reasons you may have for coming here -- you’ll certainly remember them on the way to the throne room, won’t you?

He only gives you a bewildered look. “You’ve had quite the journey, my dear! I’ll not have a guest see Her Ladyship in such an exhausted state.”

His name is Michael, you learn. While he handles many tasks in the castle -- almost too many, he says in a jesting tone -- taking care of the White Witch’s guests is highest priority. They don’t receive many guests, after all. You are led through massive halls carved from ice, pass windows and walls draped with expensive tapestries, and walk beneath cupolas adorned with reliefs of various animals. Images of serpents, oxen, crows, and more are scattered about the place. It is all you can do not to gawk openly at the sheer opulence.

You are whisked away by servants before you can protest. The ice-carved handmaidens draw a warm, rose-scented bath for you, washing away what feels like weeks of blood and grime from your skin. The clothes that have been set out for you have been sewn from fine silk, the sleeves trimmed with white fur, and it takes no less than a moment for you to note just how perfectly tailored the garments are. As if you are a mere doll, you can’t help but think. The thought settles like lead at the bottom of your stomach, an inexplicable, deep-seated worry making itself known.

Yet your misgivings are completely dispelled an hour later.

You’ve never seen such an array of fine dishes. Calf’s heart in cream sauce, pan-fried liver served with mushrooms, and cold slices of veal. Caramelized onions atop minced beef, grilled lamb with dry herbs, and a whole roast goose with golden skin. Crispy potatoes, egg-cakes, and tarts filled with root vegetables. Best of all, platters of stewed apples and berry compote topped with fresh whipped cream sit just to the side, waiting to be served. It is too much for two people to eat -- much less one person, judging by Michael’s lack of a plate -- but you don’t care. It only takes one encouraging gesture on his part for you to begin picking at the dishes, trying bits and pieces of everything. Each bite is more flavorful and perfect than the last.

A crystal goblet is placed in your hands halfway through the meal, its contents a clear, vaguely saccharine liquid. Mirrorwine, according to Michael. Some part of your conscience tells you not to drink it.

“Oh, there’s no need to be shy,” Michael assures you, handing out his own goblet for a servant to attend to. He raises it in your direction. “I believe it’ll do you some good, my dear. It is said that mirrorwine eases your aches and pains, whatever they may be.”

You wait for him to take a sip before you do -- only to find that it truly does lessen your bodily pains, just as he said it would. A single sip draws away the nagging soreness of your lame leg, and even the strain of carrying the crystalline limb seems to have disappeared. Michael gives you a knowing smile when you all but exclaim in astonishment, encouraging you to have more. If it is to your liking, he’ll call for a servant to fetch another bottle of it.

You take another long sip of the mirrorwine, feeling something like a knot unravel within you. Again there is that hollow sensation -- _whereislukewhereissimeonhowcouldyouforget_ \-- but you push it aside, enjoying the coolness washing over you. The carved chamber glistens, and Michael’s ice-like body seems to lose that strange, off-putting quality. There is only an unparalleled beauty when you look upon him, much to your surprise. How had it gone unnoticed before? How could you find fault within such a perfect being?

A third sip. A chill permeates your bones, runs its icy fingers along your spine, and embraces the confines of your weak body. You need to -- no, that’s not right. You don’t need to do anything. Why would you ever want to step outside of the castle again? You belong here. You’ve only ever belonged here.

A hand rests upon your shoulder. You look up to see Michael eyeing the empty goblet with amusement. “I would have never expected you to be such a carouser, small as you are,” he remarks.

You apologize out of embarrassment, but he merely waves it off. A gesture towards an ice-carved servant sends them scurrying out of the room. Another bottle of mirrorwine is to be served, it seems, but you don’t think you need another. Surely that would taking advantage of --

“Nonsense! You are an esteemed guest, my dear.”

A soft kiss is pressed to your brow -- a burst of winter, piercing and unyielding -- and your heart embraces the frost.

* * *

You hum happily as the comb passes through your locks, enjoying the sensation of the carved bone against your scalp. It is a wondrous thing to be tended to so well -- and by such a breathtaking creature, no less -- so you do your best to sit still. The crystallization of your lame leg seems to have spread, but Michael reassures you that it’s nothing to be worried about. It is merely a part of the process.

An ever-present feeling tugs at your thoughts at all hours of the day. You came here for something, didn’t you? You came here to see the White Witch. You must see the witch, and you do your best to remind Michael.

“But you aren’t ready yet, my little doll.” A frown graces his wonderful, perfect face. “You’re happy here, aren’t you? Do I not tend to your every need?”

He does! He does, it’s just that --

“Fret not,” says Michael, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your thoughts scatter. “You’ll see her when you’re ready. And you do want to be ready, don’t you?”

You nod obediently.

* * *

You gaze upon your reflection in the bath. Has your skin always been so bloodless? So blue? Have your eyes always been afflicted with that strange color? You blink, and your eyelids move seamlessly against the layer of hoarfrost. 

* * *

“That Luke of yours has quite the natural talent for baking, wouldn’t you agree?” Michael plucks a macaron from the display, eyeing it with an almost scholar’s interest. “No experience with such delicate ingredients, no training -- and yet he is still capable of such perfection. Isn’t that wonderful?”

You only give him a confused glance. Who is this Luke? Is he a new pastry chef?

“Oh, do forgive me, my dear. That little detail always slips my mind.”

An ice-carved servant enters the room, bows, and whispers something into Michael’s ear. You pout. While Michael always takes his leave at this time, can’t he spare you just a second longer? As if sensing your thoughts -- or perhaps only expecting them, given how he’s learned nearly everything else about you -- he presses a kiss to your temple, promising to return in a moment. That intoxicating chill fills your body once more, and you let out a sigh of satisfaction.

You peruse the options on the table before you. Berry compote seems a bit too sweet to accompany the tea, as are the crepes. The rice pudding is beholden with a bit too much salt, the lemon custard has too little rum, and you’ve had stewed apples too much recently. Your gaze draws to a strange loaf on a plate on the far side of the table, and you ask a passing servant to identify it for you.

“That would be rye bread, miss,” says the ice-carved servant. “Shall I take it away for you? It is most unsightly.”

You were merely curious, you tell her. There’s no need to remove it just yet.

You as you pick up the loaf, turning it over in your hands. The bread is the color of spruce bark and almost as dense, its insides studded with seeds. While you should find it unsightly -- Michael tends to place appearance over taste when it comes to dishes -- you find that you can find no fault in it. There is only a strange sense of nostalgia.

You’ve lost something, haven’t you?

You tear off a piece of the bread with care, staring at it for a moment. Waiting. The seeds crack against your teeth when you bite down.

* * *

He smells like flour, you think, but it’s a nice smell. A comforting smell. The blizzard howls outside, Luke shivers and burns beneath his blanket, you haven’t eaten in days -- and yet you can’t help but be comforted. The baker’s eleven year old son holds you close as he wraps another one of his father’s spare blankets around you, bundling you up. Despite that, the tears still run hot and unending down your cheeks.

 _Stop being a crybaby, you’re seven! You’re supposed to be a big girl now!_ You scold yourself over and over again. _How’s Luke gonna see you as his real big sister if you can’t even stop crying?_

“Don’t cry, it’s okay,” he soothes you. “Everything’s going to be okay. I’m not going to leave you.”

But everyone’s already gone! Mama’s gone, Luke’s parents are gone, and now there’s no one left! If it weren’t -- if it weren’t for that stupid witch and the rime and the monsters, then --

The baker’s son only hushes you again, pulling the blanket tighter around you. You sniffle. You can stay and hide here in his family’s shed, according to him -- but how much of what he said is true? How do you know he won’t be dragged away into the woods like everybody else? How do you know he won’t just leave? The baker’s son rocks you back and forth for a few minutes before finally pulling away. There’s something he needs to get for you, apparently. Something that you’ll like.

The baker’s son returns a few minutes later and hands you something wrapped in cloth. A burnt, uneven loaf sits within it. Despite your hunger, you can’t bring yourself to want it.

“Made it myself this morning,” he says, beaming with pride. “It’s burnt, but I’m pretty sure it’s still good. I can bring more stuff tomorrow.”

You thank him, trying to discreetly wrap it up again -- but a quick glance in his direction tells you that’ll hurt his feelings. Your teeth scrape awkwardly against the burnt loaf, sinking into a particularly crunchy, scorched spot, and you try to chew as politely as you can.

He smiles. “Well, what do you think? Good, right?”

You nod wordlessly. Your mouth is sore enough to take your mind off crying, at least for now. 

His name is Simeon, you learn. His name is Simeon, he smells like flour, he’s a terrible baker, and he promises he’ll be one of the best hunters ever. Luke is four and loves listening to his stories when Simeon can sneak away for a night. You get used to Simeon’s terrible rye bread at some point, because you would do anything for the people you love. You would do anything to protect them, even if that means telling them their rye bread is good when it nearly breaks your teeth.

* * *

The tears carve their way down your cheeks, cutting through the layer of rime. Your tea cup lies shattered on the ground, the contents spilled against the icy floor, and your body is horribly, unbearably cold. It is only then that you realize just how thin your clothes are: the silk raiment that Michael has dressed you in is paper-thin, your feet are covered only by a pair of woolen slippers, and there is no cloak in sight. Your supplies are gone.

The crow-beast had taken your dearest, most fond memories in exchange for freeing Simeon. Simeon had been let go, you remember, but where had he gone afterwards? Where exactly is Luke and what have they done to him? That ice golem -- how long has he bewitched you? How much longer do you have until the curse of the rime takes hold of you once more?

The door creaks open. Michael, the doll-maker, has returned. A knife sits beneath one of the platters at the table.

**Tip: You are fighting [Michael, the Doll-maker]. Bide your time and pretend to be spellbound until you have an opening. You have only one chance.**


	9. ???

The ice-carved guard’s halberd strikes hard against your crystalline arm, nearly knocking you to the ground, but the curse of the rime has become much too strong to give way. Your lame leg acts as both a prop and pivot, and you easily knock the halberd out of the guard’s hands with a simple swipe. One kick to render him prone, a swing of his own weapon, and his body shatters against the icy floor. A strange, pale blue ichor pools around his remains. You step over him and head down yet another seemingly endless corridor.

It won’t be long until the frost overwhelms your heart once more. The remnants of sensation that you still possess seem to drift further and further away: you no longer feel the lingering frost on your skin, and the paths carved out by tears on your cheeks have turned into ice. You can feel yourself bound to this realm in body and soul. You pad barefooted amongst the opulence of the White Witch’s castle, searching desperately for anything that might be a throne room. You come across a few more ice-carved guards. While they possess only artificial desires and hearts of frost -- like the soulless doll-maker, you note -- they’ve been allowed to roam long enough for you to justify their shattering. You peer into the snippets of memories with your rime-touched eye, seeing winding halls and paths of hoarfrost. There is the glimpse of a carved throne, a massive, glittering chamber, and a glacial crown. You crush the last guard’s head with your foot.

The heart of the glacial rift calls out to you. You storm the throne room with a stolen halberd, prepared to demand Luke and Simeon’s freedom from this nightmare realm.

But the words never come. You are rendered silent, your mouth sewn shut by some invisible force. A wave of her delicate fingers forces you to kneel, nearly cracking your lame leg in two, and despite the lack of physical contact, you feel her glacial touch trace the side of your jaw. It leaves needles of ice embedded in your skin.

“How nice of you to finally arrive! Your little brother has told me all about you.” Her peals of laughter echo in the massive chamber, and the needles of ice push themselves further into your flesh. “Oh, Luke, why don’t you say hello to your dear sister? I believe you’ve missed her an awful lot.”

You know you should feel nothing but rage towards this frost-ridden abomination. Nothing but cold, bitter resentment. You should have nothing but the desire to shatter this creature to pieces and to crush her heart underfoot. You can discern the depth of her corruption in her reflection: her skin is completely bloodless and spider-webbed with ice, bearing an unnaturally blue pallor. Her eyes, much like yours, are beset with a layer of hoarfrost. Frost-like lashes flutter against carved cheekbones, white locks seem to have bound her to her throne, and rows of sharp teeth make themselves known when she smiles. Fear, revulsion, abhorrence -- you should be steeped in all of that and more.

Yet you do not. Here lies the heart of the glacial rift. In this beautiful embodiment of frozen death lies the source of the corruption, its voice calling out to you.

Oh, and how sweetly it beckons.

Your trance is interrupted by the sight of blond locks and blue eyes. A fine silk tunic, breeches interwoven with silver, and a lavish cloak trimmed with white fur. The porcelain doll regards you with dispassion and -- no, you’re wrong. This is no doll before you. This creature that the White Witch has corrupted can only be --

“Who are you?” Luke asks.

Luke, it’s -- it’s you! It’s his big sister! Tears threaten to spill once more, and you can’t help but smile with a strange sort of relief. Your voice cracks. Why can’t he recognize you? What has been done to him? You call out his name again and again, pleading, but you receive only a disdainful glance.

He turns to the White Witch, frowning. “Can I go back now?”

“Oh, of course, my dear.” She presses a kiss to his temple and ruffles his hair before sending him off. “Now, where were we?”

You demand to know what she has done to him. She was human once before. How could she find it in her heart to be so cruel? She may have betrayed her brothers for the corruption, but surely --

Her fingers dig into her throne, slightly cracking it. “Betrayed? You think I betrayed them?”

There’s no other word for it. You had inadvertently peered into Lucifer’s heart when you had slain him, and the fleeting memories had branded themselves into your mind. There was another White Witch when they had journeyed to the heart of the rift. A weaker one, yes, but a White Witch all the same. A White Witch could only live without devouring a heart for so long. Lucifer could only remember the taste of blood in his mouth, the tears spilled upon him by his sister, and the loving, gentle caress of death. He had bid her to slay the White Witch for him -- for all of them, as the rest had fallen to the dangers of the glacial rift. Belphegor, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Satan, Leviathan, and Mammon had long perished. And then Lucifer could only remember the absence of his sword, Lilith drawing it away, and what remained of his consciousness slipped away.

You know her. You know what she’s done. You know her name.

“Oh? And what is my name, then?”

Lilith. Her name is Lilith.

Her mouth quirks into a mirthless smile. “Well, you certainly aren’t as stupid as you look,” she remarks, sighing. “I was called by that name once, yes.”

Then that means she understands the pain of loss. How could she ever want to inflict that pain on anybody else? Why did she spirit away Luke into her realm?

“You act as if he didn’t come of his own accord. I can assure you that he very much did. I never wanted him in the first place, really.”

She’s lying. As the White Witch, she must devour a heart.

“Perhaps Lucifer’s memories weren’t clear enough for you, then. I believe he perished before I did.” The White Witch rests her chin in her hands, as if preparing to discuss the details of some tedious affair. “A heart of frost is not created by simply corrupting a creature with the curse. Oh, believe me, I’ve tried. A heart of frost belongs to one who is both pure and corrupted. One who has suffered unfathomable amounts of pain -- and has yet to submit to the curse. One who freely gives it. That, my dear, is a heart of frost. Anything else is a mere mockery.”

The realization dawns on you.

“You were quite adorable, really. All that screaming and throwing rocks -- well, I suppose it was only a distraction,” she says, “but that’s beside the point. Such selflessness in adolescence is quite rare. All these years, and you haven’t changed one bit.”

If you hadn’t acted as quick as you had on that fateful day, you’re sure that Luke would have been the one torn apart by the creature. The creature that was once Agathe had given you no mercy. The thirteen year old Luke would have had an even lesser chance of survival.

“Imagine a life without pain. A life without heartache, without suffering. A fulfilled wish is a wish fulfilled. Gowns sewn from the finest silk, silver crowns beset with jewels, beds stuffed with the softest down -- oh, my dear, you’ll never want for anything here. I can give you all of this and more, if you so choose.” Her expression almost becomes gentle, her face becoming even more beautiful than before. The heart of the glacial rift sings from within her, and you crave its embrace. “All I ask in return is your heart.”

The great doors creak open behind you, followed by the sound of sabatons against ice. You turn around out of instinct. It takes you one moment to realize that the witch has released you from her spell. It takes you another moment to realize just who has walked in behind you.

The White Witch claps her hands in delight. “Oh, how wonderful! Another guest is here for you, my sweet.”

It is said that the rime draws beasts out of the hearts of men. You had believed you had seen everything that there was to be seen when it came to corruption of wishes and sins, and you had believed that the rime could not possibly warp an innocent and pure intent. Belphegor and his sloth had turned him into a nearly dormant golem. Beelzebub and his gluttony had turned him into one with an insatiable appetite. Asmodeus and his lust had changed him into a dryad capable of only seeking pleasure and beauty. Satan and his wrath had transformed him into a dire wolf capable of pure destruction. Leviathan and his envy had metamorphosed him into a sea serpent. Mammon and his greed had changed him into a crow-beast obsessed with value. Lucifer and his pride had led to him becoming an ageless, imprisoned shadow of himself. 

For Simeon, it was love.

**[Give her your heart.]**

**[Refuse.]**

**Tip: [The White Witch] will not take refusal kindly. Make a wise choice.**


	10. Bad Ending: The Witch's Doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requirements:
> 
> 1\. Give the White Witch your heart.  
> 2\. Allow Simeon’s HP to fall below 50% in at least three boss fights.  
> 3\. Fail at least five self-sacrificing quick time events (i.e., be overly dependent on Simeon and make the minimum effort to protect him from harm).

_This is all your fault, isn’t it?_ The thought sears through you, burning what remains of your resolve to ashes. _He would surely hate you, if he had the capacity. If it weren’t for you -- well, it’s a bit too late to think of what-ifs now, isn’t it?_

You approach the creature that Simeon has become, reaching up to press your hand against his visage. He leans into your touch, perhaps recognizing you, and you think you hear some iteration of your name. He has become every bit of the knight in shining armor he has wanted to be, it seems. His monstrously large frame has been outfitted with silver armor, every piece of it inscribed with brilliant sigils, and the sword at his side seems to have been carved from pure moonlight.

He’s beautiful. He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes upon.

You know that cannot leave. The curse has wound itself around your soul, binding you to this land. The purity of his intent radiates from within him, simple and chaste, and you cannot bring yourself to abandon him again. He and Luke are happy here.

The White Witch gives you a gracious smile when you face her once more. Her hand reaches out, beckoning you. Her breath dances against your bare collarbones. Your undone bodice slips from your shoulders with a hush. A delicate, icy finger traces your sternum, stopping just before where your heart.

“I will do my best to lessen your pain, my dear,” whispers the White Witch against your ear. “It will be over in a moment.”

* * *

The witch lies.

* * *

The currant jelly today is a bit too tart, you think. A bit too acidic on the tongue. You add yet another dollop of whipped cream, crumble almond-flavored meringue atop the dollop, and take an experimental bite. Perfect. While the current doll-maker has a penchant for rice pudding and buttermilk, you can’t help but love the desserts with apples and currants above all else. Much to your irritation, it seems that the doll-maker has requested a lesser amount of currant jelly and stewed apples for the table today.

No matter. You’ll have Simeon shatter him if he steps out of line again.

You gingerly spoon portions of currant jelly onto Simeon and Luke’s plate, making sure to give them as much care as you had given to yours. While Luke doesn’t react when you put his fork in his hand -- hasn’t moved for a while, now that you think about it -- you do your best to secure it. It clatters onto the floor. You feed him yourself with your own fork, ignoring just how blue his lips have gotten. His eyes, blue and unblinking, have long lost their luster.

More dogged contenders have dared to encroach upon her lands, says the White Witch. Doesn’t that sound lovely? If you and Simeon break them into submission -- which you undoubtedly will, of course -- you’ll have more dolls to keep you company With so many kingdoms having befallen to the curse of the rime, it was only a matter of time before more powerful creatures would seek to end to the White Witch’s rules. This party is made of three rather interesting individuals: King Diavolo, the ruler of a fallen kingdom; Barbatos, former assassin and right hand to the king; and Solomon, an exceptionally powerful sorcerer of the court. While the witch tends to entrust the most powerful of opponents to you and Simeon, it would seem that these humans are especially dangerous. Dangerous, cunning, and prepared.

The sound of Simeon’s sabatons interrupts your train of thought, and you sigh. There are only so many humans you can slaughter before the process bores you, after all.

You belong to the witch body and soul. Only ice fills where your heart once was.


	11. Bad Ending: Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requirements:
> 
> 1\. Refuse to give the White Witch your heart.  
> 2\. Allow Simeon’s HP to fall below 50% in at least three boss fights.  
> 3\. Fail at least five self-sacrificing quick time events (i.e., be overly dependent on Simeon and make the minimum effort to protect him from harm).

Before you journeyed to the heart of the glacial rift -- before you had ever thought of embarking on this hellish journey -- you had only caught fleeting glimpses of Simeon’s skill in battle. The clashing of blades with a fellow hunter, his opponent’s weapon being skillfully parried a moment after. The disarming of a dozen recruits at once, his sinuous body weaving between attacks. His poise was greater than that of an ox, his grace rivaling that of an elk. When he placed a blade in your hands as your senior hunter, teaching you how to wield a blade of your own, you remember admiring just how perfect his form was with each strike. Seeing Simeon eradicate rime-touched beasts on your journey had not dulled your awe of his power. His power, his deftness, his experience.

The difference between your skill and his is painfully, horribly obvious.

Simeon’s blade of moonlight swings in an arc overhead. You are just barely able to roll out of the way before it decimates the icy floor, sending shards of frozen stone flying. More than a few cut into your flesh when you force yourself back onto your feet, your stolen halberd shakily held out before you, but you don’t dare to hesitate again. To hesitate once more would mean to subject yourself to certain death. In this case, a beheading.

The creature that Simeon has become simply brandishes his greatsword, freeing it of any stone remnants. A truly ingrained habit, despite his now corrupted form. He merely regards you for a moment, looking every bit like a silent, statuesque knight in silver armor. When he single-handedly raises his blade towards you -- the weapon perfectly perpendicular to his body, the other hand passing over his heart and shoulder -- you almost break out in mirthless laughter.

It is the wordless offer of a duel. A duel fought honorably, respectfully, and to the death.

_ So this is what you wanted,  _ you think. It is so wonderfully, extraordinarily Simeon that you can't help but feel a spark of solace.  _ You wanted to be a knight in shining armor. _

It is a battle that is already lost. You have not the strength, and you have not the skill. You have not the bravery. It is a battle that is already lost, but it is one that you will grant him. And so you return the gesture: weapon held before you, hand crossing your heart and resting at your shoulder. A bow.

You sidestep his first strike, blocking his second. It sends you flying into the icy pillar behind you, nearly shattering your lame leg, and you are barely able to parry his third strike. It is a decision that has been poorly made: he uses your overexertion of force to loosen your grip on your stolen halberd, leaving you wielding it with a single hand. You cry out in pain when he shatters the entirety of your left arm. The shards of crystalline flesh scatter against the icy floor, your blue ichor splattered over both you and Simeon.

His visage and hands had been drenched with your blood, you remember. A crimson so dark that it was almost black. The sea serpent had nearly torn your flesh away from the bone, his handiwork on your leg was a stitched mess, and you were nearly insensate. Yet you had felt the tears against your skin, his head buried in your chest. You had heard his pleas --  _ stay with me, don’t go, don’t leave me, please  _ \-- and you had used the last ounce of your strength to press both hands against his cheeks in a familiar gesture. A stupid decision. Did you give him empty words of comfort? Had you told him that it would be alright, that you would never abandon him? Had you made promises that you would come to break?

Then there was that warmth pressed against your lips, quiet and fleeting. So subdued that you had thought you had only dreamt it. But there was the taste of blood and hoarfrost, despair and desperation.

You use your lame leg to pivot, narrowly avoiding a lunge, but you have neither the momentum nor the strength to avoid the next flurry of attacks. His greatsword cuts deep into your flesh again and again, painting the throne room with that violent, vivid blue. Your own attempts are met with immediate ripostes. Simeon hacks off what remains of your ruined arm with his blade, and your scream echoes throughout the chamber.

Had you allowed Simeon to accompany you because you truly sought his aid, or had you only wanted someone to save you over and over again? Did you embark on this journey to truly save Luke, or were you simply afraid of dying alone? When the creature that was once Agathe ripped you apart, piece by piece, were you satisfied with the knowledge that you had saved your brother?

Or did you resent him for causing you so much pain and suffering?

Simeon’s greatsword crushes your lame leg. You collapse forward into a crumpled heap, your cheek impacting onto the frozen stone. Your halberd clatters uselessly against the icy ground. The creature that will be your executioner steps forward, placing himself into yet another traditional stance. His blade is swung high above his head.

You should feel anguish. You are staring into the face of death, and so you should feel some ounce of grief. Some semblance of heartache for this quest that you have so miserably failed.

And yet there is only a quiet acceptance. The light spills so beautifully upon this creature, and for a moment, you can see only Simeon. Simeon, your knight in shining armor. Simeon, the good and gentle baker’s son. Simeon, whose love you had realized just a bit too late. The light nearly blinds you as you reach for him, fingers splayed. If you were to just reach a bit further, you could touch him. You could touch him, and perhaps the curse would lift. Perhaps all would be well.

It is certainly a comforting thought.

You smile at him for the last time. The greatsword is brought down with crushing force.


	12. Good Ending: Frostheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requirements:
> 
> 1\. Refuse to give the White Witch your heart.  
> 2\. Keep Simeon’s HP above 50% in all boss fights.  
> 3\. Succeed in at least ten self-sacrificing quick time events (i.e., put yourself in the face of danger to protect him).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had midterms this week, but I've just finished them (and passed heheheh). I hope you enjoy!

All this time, and the witch hasn’t bothered to lift a finger towards you. You regret that you had only noticed it after the fifth exchange -- but you suppose that can’t be helped. A single arm dangles uselessly at your side. Your stolen halberd has become more and more difficult to wield, given the chunks of crystalline flesh missing from your body, and your blue ichor has painted the chamber a violent, vibrant blue. The creature that has become Simeon has only become more and more aggressive, given your inadvertent proximity to the White Witch. Her rime-touched eyes bore holes into the back of your neck.

You want to rip them out of their sockets.

Before you had reciprocated Simeon’s offer of a duel -- certainly long before you had held your halberd before you, a hand crossing your heart -- you had already known that such a battle could not possibly be won. Not in a traditional sense, anyway. Each of your attempts had been met with piercing ripostes. Each of his lunges had been barely dodged, and you hadn’t dared to parry. Despite the constitution that the curse has given you, you know all too well the power and finesse that Simeon bears. You cannot possibly win.

Which is alright, really, because there’s no need for victory here. Not over Simeon.

_ You don’t have to win, _ you remind yourself. Simeon flourishes his greatsword with frightening ease, and the corrupted moonlight that emanates from it is nearly blinding. You catch the glint of something far above you. A chandelier.  _ You only need to survive. If you don’t, that damned witch will -- _

You elude Simeon’s swing just in time, a barely formulated plan making itself known in your thoughts. Sheared locks of hair flutter to the ground, and blue ichor begins to flow freely from a cut against your cheek. You need no other encouragement.

Your bare feet tap pad the ground as you sprint towards the center of the throne room, and it is only after a moment that you realize that Simeon’s own footsteps not far behind yours. And so you give in to the frost just a bit more: a whispered incantation slipping into the glacial air, the rime emanating in your heart, and the frost answering your soul once more. A single step, and you can feel the ice crawling up Simeon’s sabatons. Another step, and you can feel the ice cracking from the force of his movements. It is as expected, of course. The rime-tainted memories of being spellbound by the doll-maker -- of having his hands skirting over your wrists, your hands and feet bound by ice, his words pulling at the curse within your soul -- have taught you well enough. Even if it is nothing but a parlor trick, you only need a moment.

Thankfully, it is a moment that you have earned.

The creature that Simeon has become stares at you with silent scorn, the White Witch’s gaze peering out from within. His greatsword is all but truly frozen to his hands, and his massive limbs have already begun to crack the ice. You have mere seconds left. You aim your stolen halberd straight at the chain holding the massive chandelier above, your nearly frozen body trembling with effort. The frost that encases Simeon’s upper body shatters. You draw even more power from the curse of the rime, pulling your arm back. Simeon steps freely from the impromptu cage, and the glacial shards scatter uselessly on the ground. When you finally hurl the halberd towards the chain, your last hope soaring through the air, the creature that Simeon has become is but a whisper away.

For the first time, you can’t help but be thankful for being among the cursed. You’re sure that the pain would be utterly unbearable if you weren’t.

Yet you can’t help but cry out. Blue ichor spills from your mouth, painting both you and Simeon in that violent, vivid hue, and your efforts to block out the agony of being impaled are trampled by the horrid sight. The creature that Simeon has become twists the blade in deeper. An inhuman scream escapes from your throat at that, your consciousness threatening to flicker out of existence -- but you will not yield. You will not falter. His blade cuts into your frozen palms when you force his greatsword further past your rib cage, your vision blurring from the pain. You feel the White Witch’s satisfaction rolling off him in waves.

The chandelier comes crashing down not a moment too soon, the sheer force separating Simeon’s pauldrons from the rest of his armored body. You rip the greatsword out of your rib cage before you can collapse beneath its weight.

And then you are waiting. The White Witch holds your rime-touched gaze with her own, soundless. Uncertain. Her complete inaction only proves what you had theorized.

It isn’t that she hasn’t bothered to lift a finger towards you. It isn’t that she thought it beneath her dignity to attack you herself. She simply has no power of her own.

“Frost-ridden whore! Petulant whelp! How dare you --”

Is that not why she collects her dolls? As the greatest bearer of the curse -- the true puppet of the glacial rift’s heart -- she is bound to this land in the most literal manner possible. There is only so much she can do from her throne, after all. Beyond the terrible loneliness, the loss of her humanity, and her corruption, she merely wishes for some control over her state, even if it means breathing life into things that should have never been given a mockery of a soul. Even if it means fruitlessly attempting to achieve that which she cannot have again and again. If she cannot make or find a heart of frost to devour -- well, the heart of the glacial rift has no use for something that is long dead. And the White Witch would rather wither away on her throne than simply leave her corpse to rot.

A scowl crosses her white face. “Your brother is long gone. Your companion is nothing but a hollow cadaver. Why try to save what has already been lost? What have you to gain by slaying me? You, who could have a life without pain, heartache, suffering -- my dear, are you truly willing to trade such a life for petty revenge?”

You will not be swayed so easily. Simeon’s greatsword draws fissures in the icy floor as you limp towards the witch. You’ll end her reign, you promise her. This beautiful, frozen bastion of death will meet her demise here and now, and you will be the one to see it to the end.

“The curse of the rime will live on with or without me,” she spits, her gaze filled with hate. “You may chop me to pieces, set this horrid place aflame, slay every cursed creature in sight -- but it’ll always come back. Oh, my dear, it’ll always come back. But you already know that, don’t you? I can see it in your face. You can hear it calling out to you, singing that lovely little song --”

Shut up.

A mirthless grin. “You cannot lie to me, my dear. Tell me, what was it that you wanted? Ah, no, don’t tell me -- you wanted Luke to appreciate you just a bit more. You wanted him to look at you the way he used to before my little doll tore your leg and eye out, not with all that pity.”

Shut up.

“Or did you wish you realized your companion’s affections a bit earlier? To convince such a strapping young man to throw away his life so readily -- my, you are quite the seductress, aren’t you? It was unfortunate that the doll-maker couldn’t make something more useful out of him. I did so enjoy hearing him call out for you in the torture chamber.”

**Shut up!**

Despite your grievous injuries, you find that have brought Simeon’s blade to her neck. Edge piercing through her flesh, her rime-touched eyes meeting yours. While she does not bleed -- a corpse is bloodless, of course -- you’re well aware that such a blow should have incapacitated her. The White Witch regards you with that same mocking, dispassionate smile.

It is only a heart, you imagine her whispering against her ear. It is only a heart, nothing more. Your only family is but a corpse. Your companion is a walking puppet. You had every intention of sacrificing yourself to the glacial rift. You had not expected to reach the heart of the White Witch’s realm unchanged, much less alive. You had anticipated the spread and corruption of the curse. You had known all along that you would not return from this journey, and yet --

And yet.

Your gaze flickers to the creature that Simeon has become, his monstrous form reflected in his blade. The curse of the rime will live on with or without the witch, but you cannot possibly abandon Simeon and Luke to this hellish existence. One of you must bear the curse. One of you will take the curse unto herself, become both its vessel and catalyst, and one of you will be rendered completely and utterly powerless. Forever bound to this land. The White Witch begins to show a semblance of human fear in her expression, perhaps realizing just what it is that you intend to do -- but it is too late. Your mind is set.

There’s nothing stopping you from ripping her heart out and taking it for yourself, is there?

* * *

The piercing of one’s flesh by ice crystals from within. The loss of extremities to the frost. The forced expulsion of bodily fluids. Even when you are torn limb from limb -- your ichor painting the throne, strangled cries shattering the silence -- you find yourself holding onto the gentle memory of your first days in the Frost Blades. Luke’s hand was warm in yours. Simeon gave you a surreptitious wink as he passed you, mouthing some inside joke, and you bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. It was the first day of spring.

You pray that you do not lose that memory. You pray that you will not forget the taste of spring against your lips, bright and brisk. Even if the rime will possess the entirety of your flesh and soul, you pray that it does not take this from you.

The final strip of the White Witch’s heart passes through your throat. The last of your screams echo in the chamber.

* * *

The voices come through the frost, quiet and somber. While you are no longer capable of human speech, you’re able to understand enough of the words. His name is Luke, and he’s almost a bit too stubborn and pretentious to be a simple courier for a bakery. Given his talent, he should be a patissier for a noble. Something worthy of that demeanor of his. The baker -- the baker’s son, really, or Simeon to his closer associates -- seems like he’d be better off as a guard of some sort. Oh, if only they had the reason to send him off to seek his own fortune! If he were to put himself to the test, he could even be a knight in shining armor for some noble. But he is too content as he is now, they say. He is much too gentle and kind, and the baker’s son hasn’t even the nerve to hurt a fly. There is a strange sort of sadness in the both of them, as if something dear to their hearts was lost. A sibling, perhaps? A parental figure of some sort? Or in Simeon’s case, a lover? 

The whispers come in the wind. You reach for them, only to find them slipping through your fingers.

You are everywhere and nowhere. You are the trees when the wind whistles through their branches, and you are the roots when they drink their fill from the soil. You are the eye of the storm when the thunder rolls over the mountains, and you are the stone when the rain kisses and corrodes away its surface. You are the currants so cleanly plucked by the elk, and you are the snowflake that blesses an infant’s cheek.

And when the baker opens his door to let in the first day of spring, you are the gust that takes his breath away. You are the leaves that caress his visage, you are the frost that presses itself so softly to his mouth, and you are the breeze that embraces him. You hope that he will remember, if only for a moment. There will be the burst of a bright, brisk spring against his lips when you part. A gentle yearning.

He will blink, and in the next moment, it will be as if nothing was ever there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a like and comment (if that suits your fancy, of course)!


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